Two Sides of the Same Coin
by CthuLuna
Summary: Whether she lives as Claire the Sellsword/quasi-Companion or Syn, Dark Brotherhood assassin, she is discontent. The Dread Father gains no glory from spilt blood while the selfish pretender Astrid leads the last active sanctuary in Skyrim. With help from her allies - a jester, a spectral advisor, and a sociopathic protégé - Synclaire falls into her destined role as Listener.
1. Something's Missing

Two Sides of the Same Coin, Ch 1 – Something's Missing

AN: The dagger is based off of an Indian artifact from 18th century AD, just an interesting hobby of mine

Nacre = mother of pearl

* * *

_You know, a good Purification might be just what this Sanctuary needs. _

The voice of Lucien Lachance, Synclaire's spectral advisor, echoed in her mind. That was his usual haunt since something somewhere bound him from physically – rather, metaphysically – coming to see her. The words came to her in a dream and she couldn't agree more. He lived during a time when the Dark Brotherhood thrived. The rivers of blood that flowed from the sanctuaries all around Tamriel were vastly more impressive than now – blood merely trickled from their door. It was humiliating, and the Speaker's ghost could see the wrongness of their all but aborted guild through her eyes. The dissatisfaction manifested within her.

Their 'family' was close enough. There was no love among them; except of course Arnbjorn loved Astrid and Astrid loved having a doting husband. She bore no true love for anything but herself, her husband was no exception. Syn often wondered what would happen when his shroud of blindness was removed and he saw what went on between her and that thief in Riften. The big bad wolf would probably crush quite a few heads if he knew he was sharing his favorite morsel.

The husband, Syn was fond of, as well as the Redguard and the Argonian. The others, she could take or leave – Babette and Astrid being the ones she would leave. Especially Astrid. It was her 'business sense' that Syn blamed for the atrocious new way of leading the Dark Brotherhood – less based on the will of the Night Mother and more about Astrid's own glory. She made them a hollow shell of what they used to be, of what they _could_ be. Syn knew things wouldn't change. Not while Astrid led.

The harlot was a bird of prey; her talons were latched into her position. Astrid was a force to be reckoned with, no doubt about it. The dark mistress led them well enough considering the less ambitious path they were on. The others admired her, even when they see her give into her paranoia and arrogance, they just think of how that makes her even more perfect for the job. Nazir even admitted he 'worships the ground she walks on.' Syn snorted aloud at that thought. From where she sat near the grindstone Arnbjorn was working at, it was unmistakable. It caught Arnbjorn's attention.

"Got some moon sugar or something in that tiny nose of yours, kitty?" Kitty, he always called her – small, cute, and of course inferior. The last part was key ever since he noticed her disregard for something Astrid said years ago. The damn dog was unforgiving, not that his vigilance would have lessened if he knew what she truly thought. She didn't realize she was still watching him as she mentally ranted. "Stop staring, I'm taken."

"And what a miracle that is," Syn drawled, "considering what a smelly brute you are. Those boring nine Divines must exist after all." Her amber eyes gleamed as she waited for the familiar crabbiness to flare. He exhaled a snort only a werewolf could make.

"That's because I'm a real man. You prefer melons and a kitty, kitty? I've never heard about you taking a man to bed. Even Gabriella has made a black widow of herself several times over and that's just since you've been here." Syn arched a brow. She didn't want to discuss such matters, and she especially didn't want to hear about Gabriella's excursions.

"Has anyone ever told you that you have the conversational skills of a horker?" The change of subject caught him off guard more than the odd insult did. After a few seconds of silence he laughed.

"Nope, you're the first. Now go away before you say something that really pisses me off." He pulled the blade back from the grindstone, holding it up so the firelight behind him could catch the edge of it. After inspecting its sharpness with eye and thumb, he stood and turned his back to her. A clear dismissal.

Syn shrugged, used to his gruff manner. She stood from her spot on the ground, wiping dirt from her shrouded leathers and idly brushing her hair away from her face. Before she took a step toward the living quarters, Astrid descended the steps that led to the exit of the sanctuary and called to them.

"Husband, come – I need your brawn. Syn, would you be a dear and call everyone else to gather here? The Keeper has come." It was unusual for Astrid to be so brief, she loved to hear herself talk. Arnbjorn grumbled about having to pull some weight for her, but his larger than usual strides to her gave away his unwavering obedience. Syn walked the opposite direction as he, wondering about this 'Keeper.' She was unaware that there was even another member yet living elsewhere. Her boots stomped stray nightshade petals by the small pool before she climbed the half dozen stairs to the rest of their home.

She found none of her brothers or sisters in the living quarters, which didn't surprise her; the beds were usually not occupied this time of day. Though there was little to do in the Sanctuary, they somehow managed to keep themselves entertained. Below the living quarters, her brothers were gathered. Nazir was sitting at the dining table, which Syn always thought of as out of place since it was one of the few things down there that wasn't small and moldy. The Redguard had his feet propped up beside his empty platter and was popping jazbay grapes in his mouth. Veezara sat on the far bench, he could see Syn above Festus – the mage was standing at the foot of the ramp that led to the living quarters, fussing about Sithis knows what. The Argonian was about to acknowledge Syn, but she put her finger to her lips in a command for his silence. A mischievous smile played on her lips, which always meant hilarity was about to ensue – usually at someone's expense.

Syn crouched at the edge of the precipice above Festus, shifting her position so she didn't end up landing on the old geezer. His spells were strong, but his body was not. With careful calculation, while the mage ranted about the affects of jazbay grapes on one's magic – a caution that affected the Redguard in no way whatsoever – Syn hopped down, feet clapping loudly on the stones immediately behind Festus, and hands slapping his shoulders enough to generate even more sound.

In shock, he gasped. The half loaf of bread in the mage's had was engulfed in flame, the inhale was spent on a raspy yell that was laced thickly with anger and surprise. He whirled with the burnt loaf being crushed in his fist. She sniffed appreciatively at it while the other two men howled with laughter. "I love the smell of burnt bread in the morning." Her eyes were closed; a sweet, satisfied smile was on her face.

"You stupid little skeever!" Festus threw the ruined food on the ground between them. The wrinkles around his mouth deepened with his frown.

"Dear festering Festus, you know I mean no disrespect. But I expected you to have more control than that," she teased. It was good he had as much control as he did; he was frightful when he used his spells. He was working on one that turned the victim inside out. Not quite perfected, but he had allowed Syn to be present for one of his attempts. The victim's stomach turned – literally. From jaw down his skin flipped, bringing much of his insides out. What was exposed slid down from inside his tunic and piled into a heap of pink and bloody flesh. The sight had left Syn not wanting to eat for the remainder of that day, she clearly had much more of a conscience than several of her family members. While the rest had been green with envy, she was green with sickness over the sight.

"Watch your mouth, there's no tenet against setting your hair on fire." She bit her lip and rolled her eyes in an innocent show of reluctant acquiescence.

Syn and Festus were the only ones that still followed the tenets. Astrid's only rule was 'respect your family' which meant she could do anything she damn well pleased. Their mistress had no faith in tradition since it did not stop their downfall. Perhaps that was the case – that the strict tenets were to blame. Perhaps it was poor leadership. Syn found the latter more likely, and the trend continued.

Nazir was still chuckling through a mouthful of grapes. "You must be bored to test the crotchety old wizard that way." With his deep voice, everything he said was booming. Gabriella and Babette came from the room beyond, likely to investigate the yelling and laughter.

"Not bored," Syn clarified. "Astrid sent me to fetch everyone. The Keeper has arrived." She cocked her head for them to follow and led the way back to the body of their Sanctuary. By that time Arnbjorn was also coming back in as a beast. He was carrying a large cylindrical sarcophagus, dark grey with ribs in relief around the circumference. On the top was a grotesque, gaping woman's head that resembled a draugr. The face was framed in a ritualistic headdress. Arnbjorn unceremoniously dumped the sarcophagus on the ground by the small pool. The jester that followed him wailed and flailed.

"Oh, careful with the Night Mother now! She's not as fresh as she used to be. Ha ha ha! Don't slam the coffin down like that, defiler!" Arnbjorn turned back into man. The magical qualities of the Dark Brotherhood armor caused it not to be shredded by his expanding form, which was something he had once recalled aloud that Companion armor didn't do. Once they transformed and reverted, they were exposed. After one hunt with his former shield-brothers, he punched one in the face for coming too near him with his 'equipment' swinging freely. It was this sort of temper and disregard for the honor that drove the Companions that caused the man to leave, taking his gift from Hircine with him.

"I'll defile you, you ugly mudcrab, if you don't shut your face," he growled. The jester inhaled to give a sassy retort.

"Settle down, both of you," Astrid commanded. The rest had gathered around, eyeing the sarcophagus and jester. "Brothers and Sisters," she turned to them with a sultry sway. Syn wrinkled her nose. Everything that woman did reeked of forced seduction. "Allow me to introduce Cicero, Keeper of the Night Mother."

Festus was the first to gush a welcome. "Mister Cicero! We are honored to have you and the Night Mother come to our Sanctuary." His display was over the top, as much as the jester's entire persona.

"Why thank you, kind wizard! The Night Mother thanks you for your hospitality, too!"

Astrid took over with her usual purr. "You are welcome here, as is the Night Mother. But know this: I am the leader of this Sanctuary. My word is law." Her cold tone took on more force as she followed her habit of stamping her claim on anything that entered.

"Oh, yes mistress. You're the boss!" The jester seemed unfazed by her antics. With that, the welcome was concluded and everyone dispersed. Syn didn't move, her head was cocked as she studied the coffin. Astrid's approach stole her attention when the mistress spoke.

"Sister, when you have the time come see me. A contract awaits." Astrid turned, gliding back to her usual perch that she claimed as a study, between the chamber and exit. With a final glance to the Night Mother's coffin, Syn followed. Astrid leaned against the table where a map was rolled out. A dagger stuck from the parchment where Astrid claimed her last kill. It had not moved in weeks.

"Your contact is in Whiterun. I understand a lover of hers was slain by the Companions, she wants one of them eliminated. The Companions are no easy prey, sister. They are a brutal force, but except for the Harbinger they overall lack in intelligence. I have no doubt you can eliminate the target swiftly. Stealth is not in their vocabulary." Her arms were crossed against her breasts, she was all business.

"They have a rather limited vocabulary," Syn jested. If there was any redeeming quality of Astrid's it was her sense of humor. They shared a fair amount of laughs with their dry, mocking ways.

Astrid tittered. "Indeed. Go, child. Kill well." Syn left her mistress to pack. Once in the living quarters, she flopped on her bed, opening the chest she had turned around so she could lazily roll and retrieve her items while still reclining under the pelts. She pulled her leather armor from the chest, as well as her green cloak, waterskin, and dagger. The last was the only object she still had from her life in Cyrodiil. It was, after all, part of the reason she had to run – the weapon she used for her first kill.

The blade was steel and its handle made of ivory. The ivory was inlaid with shards of nacre, small garnets, and emeralds surrounded by gold in a design that resembled small flowers. It was a family heirloom that belonged to her neighbor in Bruma before she died, and was an item Syn always envied. Upon the woman's death, the dagger was buried with her in the chapel undercroft. The night after the burial, Syn snuck in to steal the dagger from her tomb and was caught by one of the priests on her way out. Without thinking, she had plunged the dagger into the priest's chest. Had she not, her family would have discovered she was a grave robber, but then she was a murderer. She fled north to Skyrim with nothing but the clothes on her back, the small amount of coin the priest had, and of course the dagger.

She regretted little and was glad her life had taken an adventurous turn, but she always wondered what became of her family and what they assumed her fate was. Her running away could not have been predicted; beside brief periods of boredom she was happy there. Her parents were loving and her younger twin siblings were all the friends she needed.

Veezara's approach distracted her from her thoughts of the past. He saw her leathers and cloak laid out on the bed beside her as she toyed with the dagger with a look that was far from the present. "I don't know of anyone else that changes out of their shrouded armor when they kill. It is what our armor is for."

Syn stood from the bed, removing the standard issue armor. Veezara didn't turn from her as she changed, he knew she wore a thin, light tunic beneath and wasn't shy about being seen in her smalls. She tossed her armor beside the leathers and began to don her cuirass. "Sure, when our targets lurk in shadows, not in a hold capital. If I wore it now, it would be rather conspicuous."

"Oh, fine, fine. Do it your way. It has worked for you thus far, has it not?" The Argonian was leaning against the wardrobe beside her bed. Her leather trousers, gloves, and boots were on; she was finishing her look by strapping her quiver in place against her back and sheathing her dagger at her belt. She adjusted her cloak so it didn't cover her arrows and she could carry her hunting bow over her shoulder.

"It certainly has. Goodbye for now, brother. I'm off to spill some blood."

"Kill well, sister." Veezara went back to the dining area while Syn headed for the exit.

On the way, she passed Cicero. The jester was oiling the Night Mother, humming a tune. She paused before she ascended the stairs to the tunnel leading out, turning to view the corpse. The Night Mother was wrapped in a black robe; a worn rope tightly bound the cloth that hugged the sharp angles of her shriveled body. Her head was bent at an extreme angle, shoulder touching where her ear once was before it rotted off, only a ridge of cartilage still jutted from the bone. Her arms were crossed along her body, one hand over her heart, the other at her hip.

Cicero was rubbing oil into her arms. His hum raised to an ear-piercing pitch when he stopped abruptly, the ear of his goofy hat pricked with the cock of his head when he noticed someone near him. When he caught sight of Syn, he grinned.

"Oh! Hello, sister! I don't believe we've met. Cicero, Keeper of the Night Mother, at your service." He outstretched an oily hand with a gleeful, daring stare. She smiled and shook his hand.

"Hello Cicero, I am Synclaire. Though in the family, it's just Syn." When they released each other's hands, she rubbed the oil into her glove, frowning when she realized it held the smell of stale putrefaction. Her current attire was reserved for cleaner interactions. "I understand you brought her from Bravil?"

"Oh, yes. The entire town, including the crypt of our dear mother was desecrated in the battles. But Cicero took her from there, brought her to a new home!" The way he referred to himself made everything sound like praise.

"A shame she's little more than a relic nowadays."

"How the mighty have crumbled," he muttered ominously. His dark mood passed like a shadow. "But! Now that she is here they cannot deny the worth of our Unholy Matron! Surely you understand, hmm?"

"I'd like to think so," she shrugged. "But I'd best get going. So many kills, so little time."

"Oh, a contract for my dear sister Syn! Whom shall you slay?"

"One of the Companions, I'm told." She honestly hoped it wasn't one of the members of the Circle. There weren't enough beasts in Skyrim, and the bestial nature of a man cursed with lycanthropy had a certain allure – Arnbjorn was on the verge of being an exception, his muscular physique was what saved him from being all around unpleasant.

"In Whiterun! By the Skyforge! The forger of Skyforge steel – poor Cicero doesn't have a Skyforge steel dagger yet," the jester pouted.

"Perhaps you shall, they're not terribly expensive. Are you particular about it having been used? If the Companion has one, I doubt they'll be using it after I'm done with them." She ended her suggestion on a particularly wicked note. If the Night Mother can hear her, she might even be proud.

"A kill trophy for Cicero? Sister, I would be most grateful." It was hard to distinguish whether or not he actually got more excited about the offer. He was a nudge away from bursting into song and dance as it was.

"Then I'd better begin my hunt. See you around, Keeper." She began walking away before his lunacy began to rub off. He was amusing in very small doses. Behind her he returned to his ministrations over the Night Mother, chatting animatedly to himself.

"I can't wait! I can be like the Butcher of Windhelm, like 'stab stab stab stab stab' and then 'stab stab stab stab!'"

Before Syn was out of earshot, a chilling call sounded behind her, hissing her name into the dank chamber of their Sanctuary.

_Synclaiiiire…_

Syn slowly turned back, looking around the cavern in confusion and shock. The whisper was not dissimilar from the black door when she heard the unforgettable question it asked her upon her first arrival over ten years ago, though what she just heard was distinctly female. With no call following it, Syn had nothing more to go by. She could do nothing but head toward Whiterun. She approached the black door with her brows still furrowed, thoroughly distracted from the hunt.

She emerged into the lush green forest of Falkreath hold. Out there, she blended in perfectly in the disguise of a ranger. The shades she wore matched the bark and leaves, while her amber eyes were like drops of sap. The road was above her, a few steps up the hill and she would follow the path to Whiterun.

But the chill from the Sanctuary still clung to her bones, piercing straight through the armor and cloak she wore. The call she heard was haunting.

_What in Oblivion __**was**__ that?_


	2. Nourish Not a Companion's Whelp

TSSC, Ch 2 – Nourish Not a Companion's Whelp

AN: The title comes from a Latin proverb – Nourish Not a Lion's Whelp. If anyone knows what it means, do tell! It's just catchy enough to borrow for this chapter.

* * *

Most of the Companions were outside on the grounds around Jorrvaskr. Two of the whelps, Njada and Athis, were slashing at mannequins. Skjor and Aela sat near the bottom of the cliff under the Skyforge, and the twins Farkas and Vilkas were sitting at one of the tables in the shade, reclining after their late lunch and finishing their bottles of mead.

Vilkas frowned at the whelps that trained. They were flailing, not fighting. With every five minutes that passed, they grew more and more sloppy. Had the mannequins been live enemies, the whelps would be taking as much damage as they dealt. That was not the way a Companion should fight. His dissatisfaction boiled over, Athis was leaving the yard so that left Njada for him to train. When he stood several feet away and she still didn't acknowledge him, he called to her.

"New blood, stop that. You're embarrassing yourself." His arms were crossed over his broad chest as he scowled at her.

"What? I'm the best damn fighter outside the Circle. Why don't you pick on Torvar? He' the one that should never have been let in here, I mean look at him next time he gets off his drunken ass and actually trains." Njada was far from the best among the whelps, the only thing that saved her from being dead last was the strength of her arm that was superior to Athis'. Vilkas grew angry at her questioning the Circle and harbinger's judgment.

"If you were as good as you think you are, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Go train with Skjor." The elder Circle member had stopped conversing with Aela and was frowning at Njada's disrespect as well. The growl in Vilkas' order is what convinced the whelp to obey. While she glared at the man, her reason dictated she was no match for him, but her pride wondered if that was really the case.

Skjor had his hands clenched into fists, they were propped on his hips by his belt. "You have a long way to go, whelp," he barked. "Don't think for a second you're Circle material. And one more thing: Ria is the best among you whelps, you are second to last." _That should stoke the fire in her,_ he thought.

"What?" Her question was more of an indignant wail, the predictable woman flared just as Skjor expected.

"Get two swords, we're sparring."

"Good," she spat. She was looking forward to getting a few hits in.

As they fought, Njada got one strike past his shield, but it was weak. His armor would have deflected it even if she were using her steel sword. Her only redemption was her skill with the shield. At the end of the spar, he handed her his wooden sword and gestured her to put it back on the rack. When placed, she stomped toward the doors to their dining hall.

"Don't you want your assessment, whelp?" He stood right where he was the whole time. He had only taken a few steps to dodge her strikes; the man was practically immovable to her limited skill. She stopped and faced him, fists clenched by her sides. "Decent defense, poor offense. Did you learn anything today?"

"'Decent' and 'poor?' I'm a great fighter," she whined.

"Not among the Companions, you aren't. Keep that attitude and you won't learn a damn thing, but if you want to be a whelp the rest of your time with us, that's your call." He didn't have a problem being harsh to her. He normally had compassion for the whelps, they were the future of the Companions, but he wondered what Kodlak saw in her besides the strength of her arm that made him think she was worthy of the honor of joining them.

Vilkas called to her, supporting Skjor's criticism. "And your fault."

Njada scoffed. "Ever stop to think that you aren't a good trainer?" She whirled and kept stomping inside like a child. Skjor was ready to call her back for another round where he didn't hold back so much. Vilkas glared at her when she passed and Farkas simply shook his head. The number of Companions they had to kick out was about to increase by one if she didn't get her act together by their next assignment.

* * *

Syn avoided forts and settlements as she headed to Whiterun, she only had some twenty or so arrows and in the heat of battle she tended to move more than her aim could keep up with. She had enough provisions for the remainder of the trip to Whiterun. Whatever she didn't have would be available in the rich plains. On the road, she looked as any other. With her head held high and her serene expression, her malicious mission could never be guessed.

The first two days of travel were without incident or much interaction, save wildlife. Meals consisted of dried, salted horker meat and when she stopped for the night, she cooked apple cabbage stew. When she slept, her spectral companion mused and fantasized about the upcoming kill.

The most dangerous beings in the plains were sabers. They were the ones that were ever hostile, giants and mammoths were able to crush them, but they were more docile until someone came too close. She didn't come across either, but travelers had the potential to be just as dangerous. Not for her, however.

At high noon of the final day of her journey, a traveling mercenary crossed her path. The mercenary was a female orc, dressed in the heavy armor specially made by their kind. Her hair was shaved and only a shadow across her scalp. Her eyes were small and squinted against the sun and her oversized bottom canines jutted from between her plump lips. Her look was severe.

The orc fully expected Syn to give her a respectfully wide berth, which the assassin did not. They made eye contact when they were feet apart; Syn reflexively gave the woman a polite smile. The mercenary scoffed loudly as they passed. Her eyes were narrowed and if looks could kill, Syn wouldn't have made it another step.

"Damn milk drinker."

Syn stopped walking immediately, the offense put a nearly tangible block in front of her boot and she would go no further until it was removed – forcefully. Picking up a stone roughly the size of her thumb, she removed a small cloth from her satchel and rolled the stone in it, keeping the last inch free for her to grip. With a whip of her wrist, the cloth unrolled and the rock was sent flying. It connected with the back of the mercenary's head.

"Augh!" She stumbled forward and an armored hand flew to the back of her head where blood began to trickle.

"Milk isn't normally mead flavored. You might want to check your facts, toothy." Syn was staring smugly with a defiant posture. The mercenary growled, drawing her sword and shield. Syn took her bow in hand, cocking an arrow and letting it fly before the orc took a second step.

The arrow pierced the quilted greaves that covered her thigh, the orc stumbled, dropping to her knee after a few steps and firmly gripped the shaft of the arrow, ripping it out. A gush of blood followed, spraying on the dirt. Withdrawing the arrow did nothing to slow the poison running through her veins.

Syn didn't mean to waste one of the poisoned arrows, of which there were only two left. They were reserved for marks, but it was probably for the best. The orc was well equipped and would have been a challenge in close combat. Not with the specially made paralysis poison, however. It was a weak brew for an orc, she wasn't rendered completely immobile but her coordination drastically suffered nonetheless. At the least, her entire body had to be numb by then. Syn approached the kneeling, salivating, and sweating orc, drawing her dagger.

Circling behind her, Syn gripped the mercenary's head in her palm and prepared for the kill. Hate filled eyes rolled up to meet her own.

"A warning for your next life," she mocked. "If you insult a passer by, you better be damn sure you're a match for them." She raised the dagger and plunged it in the woman's throat repeatedly. Blood fountained from each puncture, four thick streams poured onto the ground. She inflicted them from left to right; her hand was out of the way before much blood got on her glove. Her more spontaneous kills tended to get messy.

Soon the gurgling stopped, the eyes that were locked to hers rolled behind her lids and Syn finally let go of the woman, letting her fall backwards onto the road. She looked over the armor, deciding whether or not it was worth the time to wash for a sale. Deciding she didn't have the time before reaching Whiterun to stop and clean the armor, she only looted the sword, shield, and gold from the corpse. After rolling it to the side of the road, she continued. She estimated the rest of the way to Whiterun would take two, maybe three hours at most.

* * *

Syn ignored the call of the Khajiit trader sitting around their caravan outside of Whiterun until she remembered the shield that was useless to her. Entering the city three hundred septims richer was a good feeling.

She decided against asking around for her contact, wanting to get in and out with as little interaction as possible. The Bannered Mare was a good place to start. _Lucky me_, she thought upon entering the tavern. _The wench works here._

Syn sat at the unoccupied table in the far corner after ordering a pint. Olfina Grey-Mane was sweeping near where Syn sat. After taking several gulps from the pint, she nonchalantly spoke loud enough for the woman to hear. "I believe we have business to discuss."

Olfina snapped her head up, the broom in her hand stilled. "I don't know what-"

"Yes you do," Syn contradicted. Her eyes slid to watch the confused barmaid. "How could you forget the rather nasty ritual you performed to call me here?"

"Oh," she answered simply when Syn's identity dawned on her. "You're the one they sent? You don't look like… who I'd need."

Syn frowned slightly, getting tired of the dallying. "That's the point of this disguise." Her tone became more dry than friendly. "Now who?"

Olfina continued sweeping, turning her back to the rest of the patrons in the tavern, hiding her anger and their conversation. Syn slouched in the chair, acting as if there was no conversation between them at all.

"Njada Stonearm. She's one of the Companions, one of the newer ones. I heard her bragging about the bandits they killed at Silent Moons camp. I- I knew one of the men there. He came in a few weeks ago and we were intimate after I got off work. He was special…" A tear dropped on the floor where her head drooped. She quickly brushed it into a smear with the broom. Syn smiled into the pint.

_Ah, the melodrama. I swear, we assassins get the juiciest gossip,_ she mused.

"Dry your eyes," Syn cooed. "The Companion won't live to see another payday." Sipping the last of the ale, Syn rose.

"Don't think me weak for not doing this myself, it is not the case," Olfina insisted adamantly. Classic Nordic pride.

"I don't think you're weak. I think living in the same city as your victim would be foolish, you would get caught." That very reason was what made Syn flee Bruma. "Besides, I wouldn't judge you negatively, you've given me a job I'm really looking forward to."

"You'd look forward to it more if you knew her, that woman is a wretch." Syn smirked, returning the empty pit to the counter and exiting the tavern.

She went to one of the benches under the large tree in front of Jorrvaskr. There she watched the entrance, pretending to read a book. The priest by the shrine of Talos was quickly on his way to earning a knife to the throat – he would not _shut up_. He gestured wildly with his teachings, one old woman stopped close to listen, though with his projections she probably could have heard it from the Cloud District. The creak of the doors to Jorrvaskr caught Syn's attention again, but it was not her target that emerged. It was a tall, broad shouldered Nord with brown hair that curled under his ears. The scruffy Companion paid no mind to the priest and went toward the Skyforge. Syn frowned at the unpleasantness of this stalk. She rolled her eyes and sighed when another priest sat beside her.

The priestess copied her sigh. "Such a beautiful day, isn't it?" Syn 'hmmed' in acknowledgement. "It's a shame this tree has withered so. It was struck by lightning some time back, and I haven't been able to restore it." Syn plopped the book in her lap and glanced at the branches above her.

"I like leafless trees." She picked up the book once more, glaring at the top of the pages so it still looked like she was reading. It would be satisfying to set the tree aflame; it could not be called withered while the bark held such a smooth, creamy tan hue. It should be black.

The priestess didn't agree with her comment and decided to ignore it. "I need someone to retrieve a special dagger for me. Are you an adventurer?"

Syn curled her lip. She was growing restless waiting for a kill and ready to inflict some collateral damage. "You need someone to do some fetching for you? Tell it to the Companions," she snapped. The priestess glared at her, then turned away with an indignant 'hmph.'

The Companion came back down from the Skyforge with a sword at his hip that Syn didn't notice before, likely since it was the one he retrieved from the blacksmith. Before he reentered his headquarters, he glanced around and decided to walk down the steps toward them instead.

"Danica," he called. The man had the heavy Nordic accent as well as many of the familiar features of a native. He was well muscled, but his hips were slender. War paint thickly coated around his sockets, bright blue eyes shone from the blackness under his brow.

The priestess beside Syn responded. "Companion! Just who I was looking for, maybe _you_ have the kind heart to help me with one of the duties of Kynareth's temple grounds." Danica cast a sidelong glance to Syn, indicating the mission had already been refused by another.

The Companion stood before the priestess, close enough for Syn to catch his scent. The man was a werewolf. Lycanthropic warriors were easy to sniff out once you were acquainted with one, the smell of wolf on them was diluted with human musk and was often misread as a person who simply owned dogs. Syn knew the difference well after living under the same roof as one for so long.

She breathed deeply, taking another look at the man. It was safe to assume he was a member of the Circle since he had the beast blood and wore their armor. He stood with his hands on his hips, confident and stoic. Syn's gaze lingered longer than she meant for it to, but the man was handsome. It didn't hurt that he was a wicked beast.

"Our hearts hold courage, priestess," he corrected. "If you wish for us to do something, I will consider your proposal. But tasks are not done for free, you should know this." He shifted his weight to one leg.

"I know and I am willing to pay. There is a special dagger that I require called Nettlebane. It is held by a hagraven at Orphan Rock. After I bless the dagger, I would need for you to retrieve some of the sap from Eldergleam Sanctuary. There are spriggans that attack when the great tree is neared."

"Hagravens and spriggans." The Companion calculated the trouble expected from the mission. "That is something we will deal with. I will send a group out today."

"Thank you, Vilkas. I will either be in the temple or out here when you return with Nettlebane." He nodded, Danica rose from her seat and returned to the temple. The man she referred to as 'Vilkas' turned to Syn.

"I take it she brought this to your attention first. Do you not have the stomach for the fight?"

"I have the stomach for it, but it's not my problem. Besides, she didn't mention hagravens to me. She was just whining about the damn tree." Vilkas let out a half amused snort.

"More action for us then." He gave her a nod and turned back to Jorrvaskr.

_I'd be happy to give you some 'action', mister. _She leered at his back as he walked away, her mind swam with suggestive fantasies.

She returned to the book, wondering who would be sent on the mission. Either way, it worked to her advantage. Either their fortress would be lightly manned for her to sneak in or her victim would be out in the forest. If they left now, they would reach Orphan Rock around nightfall. A return trip would be delayed until tomorrow.

Vilkas stepped out of Jorrvaskr once more, three other Companions in tow, one of which was Olfina's wretch. The werewolf nodded to Syn as he passed again, she smiled sweetly at him more out of her excitement about the progression of the stalk than her attraction to him.

Her mind started to calculate their most likely route. Assuming they didn't cut through the forest, they would take the road through Riverwood and past Helgen to get to Orphan Rock. She had two of those poison arrows left; it had been long since she witnessed their effect on a human.

* * *

Syn pulled the hood of the cloak to cover her hair and waited from her perch in the trees. She had run straight to the forest where the road zigzagged up the swell of the terrain. She could see the Companions approach with her spyglass, they would pass close enough for her to strike within ten minutes. She drew her bow and one of the arrows marked with a green stripe near the head of the shaft. The arrow was cocked and she remained still and breathless as her contract neared completion.

* * *

"What's the job again?" Every time Vilkas spoke, Njada got angry about that morning again and stopped listening.

"You'll see." Vilkas wasn't going to explain it for the third time. Supposedly she could still recognize something that needed killing, he would just have to retrieve the dagger himself and oversee the whelps kill the hagravens. The trip to Orphan Rock was more and more troublesome with each comment from the whelps.

"Fine, don't tell-" Njada's retort turned into a retch. The others whirled to see her bent over with an arrow sticking out of her neck. She desperately clawed at it, the arrowhead was scratching the inside of her throat while she coughed past it. The others stared helplessly as she ripped the arrow out, allowing blood to pour from the wound. Vilkas ran to her and caught her when she fell back, he applied pressure to the wound with one hand, but blood was still flowing between his fingers. With his other hand, he searched his pack for a healing potion. Ria was searching her pack as well for the same item.

"Shor's bones," Torvar slurred. "She's convulsing!" Njada's torso was jumping from the ground, her eyes rolled back and foam began to bubble up between her lips. After a few final gurgles, she stilled. Vilkas realized her blood didn't flow as quickly over his glove since her heart no longer pumped. His senses didn't register life in her. Quickly he got to his feet, wondering why no attack followed. He marched ahead to find the archer. When he found whoever did this, they would pay until their debt sent them to Oblivion.


	3. Homeward Bound

TSSC, Ch 3 – Homeward Bound

* * *

Syn sat on a table in clan Grey-Mane's home while Olfina rifled through a chest, bent over it as if the person behind her was a man and not an assassin. They made as little noise as possible since the rest of the clan was asleep. Olfina made Syn wait until after her shift for payment, which is what she was currently searching for.

"Ah, here we go," she whispered. Olfina pulled a large sack of gold that had been buried under her clothes. "Should be twelve hundred septims. I believe this concludes our business?" The large amount of gold barely fit in her pack.

Syn sheathed the Skyforge steel dagger she had been toying with, the one she looted from Njada's corpse when the Companions left and would soon give to Cicero. She was a woman who kept her promises, after all. After taking the gold from Olfina, she left without a word. Her footsteps were silent as she walked the deck of the upper floor, down the steps and out the front door. She'd stay in the Bannered Mare, ask about local bounties to support her alibi should her arrival on the day of a Companion's death arouse suspicion.

The dream that came didn't surprise her. In it, the ghost of Lucien Lachance congratulated her on her kill. Their surroundings were nearly indistinguishable, Syn guessed it was a dark forest on a moonless night. Her feet dangled from her seat, she was sitting in the trees. Lucien was beside her, blue vapors wafted toward and away from the entity. She caught glimpses of long, dark locks of hair and chocolate, soulless eyes.

"_A satisfying kill today, Sister. How she writhed, facing the death she never saw coming as her comrades watched helplessly – nice touch. Sithis is pleased by your efficiency." _

In her sleep, she was smiling. His praise drove her as much as the gold did. She often wished he could deliver it in person. How she would love to have shared a lifetime with Lucien. His legend was known since it was recorded by the Listener he recruited, the one that knew of his innocence – a word rarely used when it came to Lucien and any other Dark Brotherhood member – when he received judgment from the rest of the Black Hand. The ghost spoke of his death before she even knew the details, he gave a more detailed account of it before she found the journal in the Sanctuary's archives. He told the tale objectively, though upon her questioning he admitted that he still felt rage that their family was ravaged right under his nose.

His company made her look forward to slumber. She began to have more lucid dreams, finding that he would encourage her to take control over it, remind her that everything about the dream except his own presence could be manipulated by her will. Often she could guide their conversation to whichever direction she wished, other times she thought it a mere dream and often ended up lunging to kiss him.

The latter scenario he took with good humor. He could recall the wants of a living body, how those desires even fogged the subconscious mind. He would stop her with a smile, with hands as cold as the Void he'd push her away. He knew the shame she would likely feel upon waking. Besides, his life was over and his ethereal body would find no release with her. It would be a truly pointless exercise.

In her current dream, she made no advances. She was aware and sat beside him in silence. The dream was a mere flicker, Lucien had barely enough time to give his review before she woke.

* * *

After a lazy morning and early afternoon spent around the stalls and shops, Syn left for the Sanctuary. Time got away from her in the city, when she was a mere three hours away from the hold capital, the moons shone high above in the darkness of the night sky. She climbed a high rock, saw a fire blaze in the distance and headed toward it.

The logs that fed it were large, too large for a person or even a small group to erect in such a way. The ground shook with the 'thrum, thrum' of heavy footsteps. Syn backed out of the light from the blazing fire, but the giant already saw her and was nearing. She stepped further into darkness, crouching behind a nearby tree and throwing a small pebble she found lying in the grass to get the giant off of her trail. It loomed to her right, so she went left to climb the small hill and jump on the rocks that were shaded by two broken, jutting columns.

She whistled sharply, sure that she was fully hidden in the darkness and would not be seen. The giant lumbered toward the sound she made, unsure where precisely it had come from. It passed her, its height was not far below the rocks. She drew her sword slowly so as to not attract its attention to her current location. Something further in the darkness did, the giant's ears perked and she had to move quickly before it would walk too far for her to attack. She hopped on one of the columns and pushed off of it with her feet, leaping to land on the giant's back and cleave its skull. It had the few seconds of life to groan before its body fell forward with Syn still on its back. The noise that distracted the giant continued, growing louder. Her muscles tensed, she gripped her sword tightly and glared into the darkness, ready to draw it from the giant's skull and make yet another kill. Quickly stepping into the light were the three Companions, returning from Orphan Rock.

Vilkas sheathed his greatsword when he recognized her. "Oh, it's you."

"'Oh, it's you' back." Syn hopped from her seat on the corpse's shoulders and gestured to the grandeur around them – the dead giant with blood pooling around him, a saber on the edge of camp the giant had been lugging to the fire before it caught the intruding assassin, and several skins for mammoth cheese the giant had yet to gather and churn. "Welcome to my camp!" The Companions Syn didn't know looked impressed.

The male whelp slurred behind Vilkas. "My kinda lady." Syn chuckled.

"You're welcome to stay for the night. Back to Jorrvaskr, hm? Got another three hours of travel ahead." She withdrew the orcish sword from the giant's corpse with a crack and squelch, then wiped the blood off on its loincloth and sheathed it. The woman behind Vilkas answered.

"Boy, stopping now sure sounds good to me. It's been a long day. But it's your call, Vilkas." The only werewolf present scratched at the scruff on his chin, distracted from his decision when Syn started poking at the dead saber cat.

"What are you doing?" He watched as she lifted its eyelid, then parted its jaw and pinched its tongue before inspecting its body for other damage.

"Checking to see how long this thing has been dead. Saves me from having to hunt."

Vilkas scoffed. "A true Nord never passes the chance to fight."

Syn paused her inspection to glare at him over her shoulder. "You want to fight a damn rabbit, go ahead. I'm cooking saber for supper."

The drunk Companion uttered a confused, 'eh?' "I never heard of eating saber meat."

"As far as flavor, it's not to dissimilar from boar. But it's a bit tougher. I'm sure you won't mind it if you're a real carnivore like me." Syn drew her knife from its sheath and began to skin.

"Who are you, anyway?" the woman inquired.

"Oh!" Syn hopped to her feet, realizing introductions haven't been made. "Claire the Sellsword, at your service." She folded an arm across her belt, crossed one foot behind the other and bowed. "I've been pretty much all over Skyrim bounty hunting. This is the first time I've been to Whiterun in a while though, usually stick to the outer hold capitals. Especially Riften, where there are many petty squabbles."

"I'm Ria," the woman stated. Gesturing to the drunk, she introduced, "This here's Torvar and that's Vilkas. He's the only member of the Circle among us three." The werewolf was still glaring at her.

"Pleasure. Staying or not? I can't eat this big cat by myself."

Vilkas sighed, still trying to make a decision. "If another giant comes, it may not be you that gets the jump on it. We'll stay for the night." Something about his bored drawl made Syn believe he wasn't too thrilled about the idea, but the other two were relieved. They stayed mostly quiet while Syn prepared the food and they ate. After dinner, Ria burst from the deafening silence.

"I still can't believe you killed a giant so easily. I killed one last week on one of the farms outside of Whiterun, but there were two Circle members with me."

"With the right tactic, anything could be an easy kill. Except maybe a mammoth or dragon." Syn waved the fork she had been licking as she shared her 'wisdom.'

"You said you traveled all over Skyrim," Ria recalled. "Where are you from?"

"Falkreath, I'm told, but I don't remember it. My family moved to Cyrodiil when I was young. Spent most of my childhood in Bruma so I was still more or less surrounded by my kinsman."

"Less," Vilkas barked. "What made you return to Skyrim?"

"I grew restless, traveled north on a whim." Syn shrugged, staring at the ground as she answered.

Vilkas caught the change in mood, she went from amicable to evasive in a mere breath. "Why don't you tell us the real reason?" He doubted she would, something about her put him on his guard. His gut told him she was a snake.

"I was orphaned." A silence stretched after her words. She supported them with a nod. "I was antisocial when I was young so I didn't have any friends and the couple that took in the twins didn't have room for me. I just left with the meager coin they tossed in my hand." That answer was more easily accepted by the others. Her sadness was sincere, though the manner of her reluctant departure from home was a lie. As far as she knew, her parents could still be alive. She never was found and therefore didn't receive word about them or the twins.

"For what it's worth, you have my condolences." Vilkas' gruff words softened when he noted her sadness, and felt a pang of guilt over having pushed the matter. He decided to change the subject. "What about when you came to Skyrim? Did you stay in Falkreath?"

"No, I headed north until I reached Solitude. I'm not sure why. It took about a year for me to get that far though. There I was taken in by the executioner and his woman. Lived with them for four years before I went out on my own."

"Quite a story!" Ria cut in. "Where did you learn to fight?"

"I trained since I was eight. Used the bow mostly but since then I've neglected it a bit. Ahtar, the executioner, taught me some as well. I wasn't skilled until I trained with him. He was good with his trusty headsman's axe, but he could only teach me so much with a longsword so he got me into the training yard with the Imperial soldiers."

Vilkas was still feeling skeptical about her. She was friendly, but something still seemed off about her being out there alone, antisocial or not. "What made you decide to become a sellsword?"

"I wanted to be helpful in my own way. Be able to travel, learn the land, kick some asses that really deserve a good kicking."

Torvar cackled. "Can't argue with that!"

Ria's questions were constant, "Where do you stand on the war?"

Syn bit her cheek and gazed into the fire as she thought. "I don't much care for the Imperials and Thalmor trying to bring their rules to a country that is fine the way it is. I also think Stormcloaks could use some readjustment. For instance, the racism in Windhelm is bullshit. The difference between the Stone Quarter and the Grey Quarter is startling and that kind of senseless hate only pollutes what is, in all other aspects, a great city." Vilkas stayed silent, but he could hardly disagree with her answer. He didn't pay attention as she asked what the three of them thought of the war. She got vague answers from Ria and Torvar, and Vilkas never acknowledged it. She caught his attention again when she snorted. "If I'd have known what lame answers I'd get from you three, I'd have watered down my response as well." Her smile showed she wasn't truly put off by it. Ria was surprised and jumped to remedy the mild annoyance.

"Oh, it wasn't intentional! Ask something else, I promise I'll answer better." Vilkas rolled his eyes at their constant chatter.

"Or if you were prudent, you'd get some rest now. We need to be up at dawn." The whelps scurried toward their bedrolls. As he rose to stretch, Syn stood beside him.

"Well aren't you just a ray of sunshine," she cooed. "Get your grumpy ass some rest, I'll take watch." Her words and overly cheerful attitude only riled him up.

"_If_ I'm being coarse it's because we lost one of our own on this mission, the one that was asked of _you_ before your outright refusal, and for what reason if you are such a skilled mercenary? Furthermore, I have neither the desire, nor the ability to sleep when a stranger is all that stands between myself and danger. I don't know you, sister. I'm taking watch." The look on her face was satisfying, though fleeting. Her shock was quickly covered by anger that matched his own.

Syn had never faced a person that grieved over one of her contracts, the guilt she felt was new to her. She could not let him discover the nature of the whelp's death, she doubted she was a match for a werewolf. "I didn't know about your loss, for that you have my sympathies." Having used the last of her calm to lie to him, she tensed for her real rebuttal. "But if one of you fell to whatever you faced, you wish it upon me? Four became three, what then would have happened to one if I went alone?" She scoffed. "Forget it, I don't expect you to care for a life other than one of your 'shield-siblings.'"

_Care for a life?_ She thought to herself. _Oh, what a hypocrite you are, 'Claire.'_

Keeping her ironic thoughts hidden, she continued lashing the wolf with her scathing anger. "You want to take watch? Fine, the east side is yours. I'll be watching over here. Your quickness to point out my possible malice only proves your own." The lies kept piling up. She knew he was right to suspect her and she hoped her innocent act was convincing enough. If wolves can smell fear, could they smell deception too?

He opened his mouth to retort, but the first syllable was halted when her arm shot out to point to his assigned vigil. "Go," she commanded. His teeth clamped in a sneer.

"I am not some dog for you to order around," he barked. Syn's eyes widened when she recognized antics similar to her own and her smile grew until it was nearly ear-to-ear.

"Oh, yes you are and you are such a good boy! Yes you are!" She broke one of the ribs from the butchered saber carcass to see if she could lure that wolf out from its now infuriated confines. "Go fetch, boy. Then go sit and stay." Her jests were laced with giggles, after she tossed the rib toward where he would likely stand watch, she gestured with her words in a one sided game of charades. The whelps were missing a vital piece of the puzzle – Arnie had told her the beast blood was kept a secret in the Circle. They stared in unsuppressed horror as their elder was being made a fool of.

"Watch your tongue," Vilkas bit out. "Another damn word and I'll show you why no one dares trifle with Companions!" His hands were itching to wrap around the hilt of his sword. It was hard to tell if she was resorting to empty mockery or if she really knew about the beast blood. Either way, the wolf within him hungered for revenge, his entire being was set against letting the beast out now. He would kill what was presumably an innocent citizen in front of the whelps and give away the Circle's secret, one that shamed him greatly.

Syn 'humphed,' folding her arms and cocking her hip out. "You really are an ass, you know that? Now take watch as you said you would or leave." Vilkas eyed the whelps in their bedrolls. They had been sitting there agape as he and Syn quarreled, when he turned to them they flopped down as if they were at rest. A sorry display meaning they still had no desire to do anymore traveling tonight.

"This isn't over." Vilkas crossed his arms and leaned against the rocks on the small cliff over him, refusing to step further out into the darkness to 'fetch' that damn rib. He glared at Syn until she crossed to the western side of camp and stayed, looking out among the plains with her hand resting on the sword at her hip. He sighed angrily and turned to the eastern side, yearning for a decent night's rest in his own bed at Jorrvaskr.

* * *

Their watch lasted all night, both warrior and assassin were proving their wills by staying awake, not letting the other stranger watch over them. Syn was less inclined to stay up, several times she turned to head toward her bedroll but she would catch sight of that Circle asshole and in her anger she would remain vigilant. Several times it occurred to her that their cockfight was pointless, but she didn't want to stand down to a man like him. She was unable to tell him how lucky he was – anyone else in her family would have killed them outright. She was the soft one in the Sanctuary, they said.

After dawn broke, she crossed to her tent. It no longer mattered to her if a saber came and had Companion meat pie for breakfast. At the sound of her movement, Vilkas faced her. With a final sweep across the land he could see, he marched toward his own equipment, much more awake than she. He noted her bleary eyes and felt he was the victor over their standoff. His eyes caught hers and she sighed, rising from her items tiredly.

"Come, Companion. Let's have a truce before we part ways." He huffed at her, taking the 'truce' as a surrender and feeling no small amount of pride for being the one to hold out the longest.

"What's the point?" The whelps braced themselves, expecting it to come to blows if there were any escalated hostilities between them since the night before. They had already packed their bedrolls and were ready to set off when Vilkas gave the word.

"What was the point of our quarrel?" Syn approached him, more alert than she had been before speaking. When he didn't relent, she started. "No more losses on your journey back, understand?" She held out her hand.

"Aye," he agreed. He took her hand and gave it a firm shake. She simply held his, smiling slightly at the fragile peace she just forged between them. After a long moment, he realized they were staring at one another. He cleared his throat and let go of her hand, putting both of his on his hips. "Come on you two, back to Jorrvaskr." The whelps picked up their belongings, as did he and Syn. With Ria and Torvar walking ahead, Vilkas paused. "Watch yourself on the road. Our other member was killed by a stray arrow. We never did find the archer. If you can, avoid the forest between here and Riverwood. That is where it occurred." Biting her lip, she nodded and watched them head toward the road.

* * *

_By Sithis, if I come across another bandit I'll just dump my equipment on them and crush the bugger to death. _

The weight of the loot she carried from various encounters crippled her enough to have her journey last an extra two days. To carry it all, she even resorted to binding the daggers in her bootstraps. Though she complained considerably less at night when she piled the fur armor under her bedroll, by the second night she had rested well enough to recover from her sleepless night and the travel after.

She was forced to stop at Falkreath to sell some of the bulk and hoped the small city had enough coin to purchase it all. Instead of a more mercantile greeting, the blacksmith stopped hammering at his station to ask, "Have you seen a dog?"

"Yeah, for a while, but I dumped him months ago." She smirked. The blacksmith was caught off guard by her witty and false admission. The closest thing to such a relationship as many months ago as she hinted was a romp with a Dunmer priest of Mara, whom she killed at the behest of the daedric prince Vaermina.

"Oh, heh. Good for you." She was able to sell most of the armor and weapons she took. The jewels were hers to keep and even if she had intended to sell them, she wouldn't have been able to. With business concluded, she headed down the road back to the Sanctuary.

Approaching the Black Door always gave her relief. The chilly stone beckoned her to enter, but the feeling faded when she would have to pass Astrid and report to her. She and Arnbjorn were standing beside one another against the table outside their bedroom.

"Sister," the mistress purred. "You took longer than I expected. I was beginning to worry." Her arm was locked with her husband's, the big brute was hungrily waiting for news of the kill.

"I heard you had to kill a Companion. Please tell me it was one of the Circle or the old, good for nothing Harbinger." His wolfish grin would have been unsettling to anyone other than a child of Sithis.

"Nah, it was one of the whelps. Killed the bitch with an arrow coated with some of that poison Babette gave me, right under one of the Circle members' nose. Tell me, how do they react when they're helpless and unable to transform because of the presence of other whelps?" Astrid grinned appreciatively, glad that Syn took her advice about a stealthier approach. Her husband was more impressed than that.

"Hah! I bet he was pretty damn pissed about it. It's not easy to avoid transformation when you're feeling like a useless whelp. I don't envy the bastard, just wish I could have seen it." Syn's smile was plastered to her face, but didn't reach her eyes. She didn't mind Vilkas, he reminded her of Arnbjorn a bit, though the former was much more likable – mainly because of his looks.

Astrid didn't seem to notice Syn's reservations. "A job well done, sister. Now get some rest, you've earned it. And welcome home." The story was told in greater detail when she was further inside. Babette was thoroughly pleased with the results of her new poison – Syn was sure to report its effect on the Orc as well. The un-child twirled her hair around a finger, thinking of how to get past the more resilient races. When their curiosity was satisfied and all jests relating to the kill were made, everyone returned to their business and Syn headed toward the small, ruined chapel room.

The Night Mother's sarcophagus had been moved there. Syn frowned since it blocked the stain glass representation of Sithis that she always loved looking at. She had drawn it in her journal, the one she always updated after a contract and would write in again after she spoke to Cicero. The jester was humming in his quarters on the opposite side of the chapel. When he noticed her standing outside, he hopped to his feet.

"Hel-lo sister! Back from Whiterun, hmm? I overheard your account of the kill. I never use bows myself. Knives are so much more _personal_." He rocked back and forth in his boots, fingers wriggling by his sides.

"Knives like this?" She handed him the steel dagger that was once Njada's, Cicero loudly clapped his hands once and took it from her.

"Oh, perfect! You've made Cicero very happy. What a generous assassin you are." Cicero started twirling the knife between his fingers, rather skillfully in fact. After a remark from her on her eagerness to see him use it one day, she headed to the living quarters. Silence, rest and a decent meal were the only things on her mind.


	4. Hear No Evil

TSSC, Ch 4 – Hear No Evil

* * *

Syn retired early that evening, normally the others passing by and going to bed themselves made her wake, but she slept soundly. Her sleep was dreamless, and Lucien repeatedly attempted to enter her subconscious mind but found it troublesome. He rarely had such need to do so, but the Dread Father's will was about to be made known through the Night Mother.

He was able to contact her, designing a dream but he could only muster the will for a brief flicker here and there. Part of her was resisting, taking comfort in the emptiness of sleep, akin to the Void except in its warmth. When he did reach her, she was far from him. He had to call to her.

She heard the unearthly groan and saw a faint blue glow from afar, but made no move to investigate it. Their surroundings trembled and blinked out, the next place Syn found herself in was an old Dwemer ruin, she opened a door only to have water rush forth and fill the room. Her arms were too heavy to move, she sunk like a stone to the floor. Freezing hands grasped her shoulders and lifted her to her feet. Lucien was close to her, he moved as easily as if he wasn't submerged along with her.

_Sister, the Night Mother._ He could feel her dream fading away, with all the force he had, he shoved her body away from his own, shouting, _Awake!_

Syn fell off her bed, landing on the stone with a slap. She coughed against the saliva that ran down her throat, likely causing her dream about drowning. She still felt alarmed and tried to remember why what she just had wasn't a mere nightmare. As she worked to stifle her coughs, she recalled recognizing Lucien's presence. All he could say was 'Night Mother' and he was determined like she had never seen before. She stood from the ground, not bothering to put anything on her feet, and padded silently out the living quarters in an oversized tunic that reached her thighs, and her smalls. The candles lit the tunnel between their quarters and the small chapel, but some had burned out. Dried puddles of wax lined the path and once she left the light of one dim candle, she didn't reenter the glow of another until several steps forward.

She ducked into the chapel, unsure what to do next as she stared at the sarcophagus. Without a better idea and following what she _wanted_ to do, she stood behind the sarcophagus, between it and the stained glass. After feeling the solid base of the coffin and making sure it wouldn't fall from her weight, she leaned on it. Her arms were crossed and her head was cocked to the side. With perverse amusement, she realized she was sharing the wall with the Night Mother and somewhat mimicked her posture without noticing before. The cold of the metal bit through her tunic, the blood red glass in front of her glinted from candlelight. Her mind was clear, the calmness of the night made her forget why she was there.

_Synclaire…_

Her eyes shot open when she heard it again, just like when Cicero first arrived. It could be a prank, perhaps one of Cicero's games or eccentricities, but the voice rebounded from the iron _inside_ the coffin. She skirted around it, her fingers ran across the ridges in the design and she beheld the latch that kept the doors closed like one would a painting.

_Yes, release the latch, look upon my face so we can converse. _

Her fingers were stiff from the chill of the chapel air, but moved to open the iron doors anyway. Only the right was opened, she could see the Night Mother's face tilted, her lips rotted away and brown teeth were bared in a hideous grimace. Her sockets glowed pink when she spoke again.

_You respect the traditions under which this family has grown and have proven your devotion to the Dread Father, you heed the advice of his humble servant. This has not gone unnoticed. _

Syn jumped at a scraping noise behind her but the whisper started again.

_My Listener, you must journey to Volunruud where you will find Amaund Motierre. He has performed the Black Sacrament, his contract will return the Dark Brotherhood to its former glory. Inform the Keeper of my words, tell Cicero what he has waited to hear all these years, 'Darkness rises when silence dies.'_

The body's glow faded from within, Syn was left in shock. As she stood agape, she was breathing deeply the smell of death. She wondered if this was an extension of her dream, but she never felt so cold unless she was awake. She gripped the iron door tightly, still having to convince herself she was conscious. After shutting the door, she turned around numbly and was face to face with Cicero.

"What are you doing?" he growled through gritted teeth. "Come to steal, defecate, defile the sanctity of the Night Mother, hmm? Sneaking about in the middle of the night, thinking you could out-sly sly Cicero!" His volume was increasing and he maniacally stared at her. A silence stretched between them, all the while he peered at her. Bushy brows hung over suddenly clear and accusing eyes.

"Darkness rises when silence dies," she blurted. She couldn't think of any sort of build up to that, so why not come out with it quickly. The change in Cicero was noticeable. She also noticed he only wore his smalls and hat, his hair stuck out at odd angles from tossing in his sleep.

"What? Where did you hear that?"

"The Night Mother spoke." She wondered how many said similar things to him, trying to convince him they were the Listener. The words must have held significance though, she sure didn't understand them.

"She spoke those words – The Binding Words – to…" He clapped as he did before and started jouncing in dance. Syn tried to keep her eyes above his chest and not on the flopping in his smalls. "You," he squealed. "You are the Listener! I found you! I found the Listener!" The dance was paused so he could bend his knees and throw his head back in a laugh. Syn raised her arms to silence him before everyone woke. She didn't want to imagine the reactions at this hour. As she thought it, she heard a shout.

"Who is that?" The voice was feminine, it had the harsh tone Astrid adopted when she was angry. Syn grabbed Cicero's shoulders so she would have his undivided attention, though she didn't know how much she could trust a mad jester to keep quiet.

"Cicero, we cannot tell Astrid. She will not believe us. I will tell you what else the Night Mother said but you must promise me not to say anything about it now." He hummed, eyeing her curiously.

"Deceive the mistress, hmm? I like it." They were out of time, Syn backed away from Cicero when Astrid ran in the chapel in a sheer sleeping gown, Arnbjorn ran in behind her, still adjusting his trousers.

_At least we didn't wake them,_ Syn thought.

"What in Oblivion was all that noise about?" Astrid's hands were clenched into fists by her sides. Arnbjorn eyed the two of them and their attire and got what was clearly the wrong idea about the situation. He suppressed his wheezing laughter with his massive hand.

Syn sighed, feigning annoyance. "I couldn't sleep, just came in here to sit like I always do and this fool runs in, starts screaming at me about trying to steal and defile the Night Mother." She felt it was a plausible lie since it was known this was where she liked to be, just as Nazir preferred the dining hall and Festus, Babette, and Gabriella stayed near the alchemy and enchanting tables. It was her routine.

Cicero jumped in, literally. He hopped toward Syn while he defended his actions. "But why- why else would you be here? Here! With the Night Mother when no one else is here to see! She doesn't carry gold I assure you, thief! Off! Off to the Thieves Guild with you if you want to steal bodies and gold from bodies!" He had heard of her grave robbing background, apparently. It didn't matter if it was a one-time thing, their fascination with the dead would have them dwell on such crimes.

Astrid was far from pleased, her eyes glinted like sharp steel. "Cicero, no one is after the Night Mother, especially not Syn. Off to bed, then. I don't want to hear another peep from either of you." With a final glare to Cicero, Syn stomped toward the living quarters. Her feet slapped the stone loudly with each step. Cicero scurried toward the Night Mother's coffin to protectively guard it, Astrid and Arnbjorn returned to bed.

Astrid paced angrily around the bed while Arnbjorn reclined, already naked again. "Husband, they are definitely plotting something."

"Tell me to rip their throats out and I will." She came near the side of the bed he was on, he sat up to put his hands on her hips, slowly beginning to push the fabric up but she pushed his hands away. He couldn't take his eyes off her – her hair was loose and her fringe hung in her face, messy from their passion. The fabric she wore was pulled tightly around her breasts, formed for a smaller bust. He could see her smooth, flat stomach and thighs under the fabric, as well as her sex which he had been hungrily lapping at before Cicero's shouts were heard over his wife's mewls.

All thoughts of their lovemaking were far from her mind as she moved away from him to stand at the foot of the bed. "The little fool and the even bigger fool don't like me being the leader. They want my position for themselves." Astrid stared in his eyes for his support.

"Love, are you sure? Maybe they were just getting frisky – did you see that jester's drawers? He's a little man in every sense of the word but I'm telling you, the pipsqueak was erect. They're probably into all that weird shit, being whipped inside a coffin with a rotting old lady." Astrid huffed in annoyance, her husband's mind would always return to sex in his current mood.

* * *

Syn was in bed for several minutes before she decided to return to Cicero to tell him the rest. She knew he was likely still awake considering the level of excitement he reached. Her heart beat wildly in her chest on the way back to the chapel. He showed up at his doorway right as she reentered the area and beckoned her over.

"Listener," he whispered. He still only wore his hat and smalls, and she realized she missed the chance to put some trousers on herself. In the darkness, her blush would probably stay imperceptible.

"All right, the Night Mother said more. She told me about a man that performed the Black Sacrament."

"Such is the reason for the Listener! He.. or she… listens when someone prays to the Night Mother!" He was still whispering hoarsely. It was surprising he could reach the hushed volume at all.

"But there's more, she said this contract would help the Dark Brotherhood reclaim its glory." Cicero gasped like a man deprived of air for longer than his lungs could bear.

"Oh! A _special_ contract, Cicero can't wait to hear find out what it is!"

Syn shook her head, her mind whirled and without enough sleep she would never figure out how to go about the situation. "I suppose that's all we can do tonight. We'll discuss it more in the morning."

"Of course we will. Rest well, my Listener. The Unholy Matron has spoken!" He started dancing, when his words rose to a squeal again Syn knew it was time for her to leave. She had enough of the eyeful from him, anyway. She made her way back to her bed, expecting to hear from Lucien when and if she could sleep more.

Lucien remained silent.

* * *

Syn woke with an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She sat up, rolling her shoulders. Veezara was facing his bed, which was next to hers, wearing his trousers and boots and holding his cuirass to put it on.

"Sister, what happened last night? We heard the jester and Astrid yelling and saw you come back in after things quieted down."

"I went in the chapel because I couldn't sleep, he thought I was trying to rob the Night Mother or some bullshit. Astrid heard the racket he made and bitched us back to bed." She was wiping sleep from her eyes, silently wishing her anxiety away. She couldn't remember the last time she felt so nervous.

"We thought the jester attacked. Astrid has made it clear she doesn't like him. I don't think anyone but Festus does – Babette and Gabriella are indifferent about it." Having donned his cuirass and bracers, he sat on the bed, watching Syn closely.

"I don't mind him usually, last night was the first time he got on my nerves. If nothing else, it's good to have a new face around here." The last newcomer had been a young dark elf – an unsettling lass. She had the desire to kill but hardly the skill. Needless to say, she didn't last long. The mission she was claimed during was still floating around Nazir's stack of spare contracts.

Syn made a decision, she put on her armor and went to Cicero. The jester was sitting near the sarcophagus, waiting for her to enter. Syn sat across from him on a broken bench, wondering how to do the next step.

"I'm going to tell Astrid."

Cicero's smile disappeared, his brows creased under his hat. "But you said!"

"I know," she waved his argument off before he had the chance to repeat her own words from the night before. "But she's sharp, and I'm sure she knows there was more to it. Besides, if the Night Mother gave us a contract, I need to inform the head of the family. This is the structure that was established centuries ago. I cannot bypass our mistress whenever I please." It was obvious he liked it no more than she did. His mouth twitched as she explained her logic.

"Oh! The Listener is right. Go tell the 'boss.'" Cicero slumped where he sat. When he referred to Astrid as the boss, his disdain was evident.

"Cicero, how do you feel about Astrid?" She was trying to gauge his reaction to the question, not expecting a real answer. Instead of what she expected – a vague 'Cicero obeys the will of the mistress, Night Mother commands it' – he growled under his breath. He fisted the hem of his tunic, nearly ripping it in his hands. Syn nodded when his glare met her eyes. "Me too," was all she said before departing.

Astrid was seated by the table outside her chambers, fingers playing with the hilt of the dagger that marked her map. Her eyes flicked to Syn when she entered and she stared expectantly.

Syn tried her best to look unperturbed, but Astrid's present mood was one that made Syn rethink her assessment of her. The mistress was more of a killer to Syn now, not when she smiled about a contract or the gold that flowed after one was completed. "I want to talk about last night."

"So do I." Every syllable was enunciated, her posture was stiff as her fingers still danced idly along the dagger, teasing it as she would her husband's shaft. "Let's hear it."

"I didn't want to say anything last night because I wasn't sure if it was my mind playing tricks on me or the damned fool, but I'm convinced what I heard was real." She had to slow the pace of her story, if she got ahead of herself and told Astrid she wanted to go to the contact herself, Astrid would surely send someone else.

"What did you hear?"

"The Night Mother's voice." Syn paused to see the effect on Astrid. The mistress broke her still, calculating posture to roll her eyes. "Astrid, it's true! She told me about a contract. She said it would bring the Dark Brotherhood back to its former glory!" Syn's hands were on the table, she leaned over the map as Astrid did every day, though instead of studying the curves and bends of roads, the paths to their next kills, she studied her mistress' face. Astrid's anger lessened when she saw Syn's expression – it was pleading, brows drawn over wide, urging eyes.

"A contract?" Astrid raised a brow, Syn hoped it would be accepted no matter what the manner in which it was brought to their attention. It was also a wonder how many other contracts they missed, depending on word of mouth to respond to one. The Dunmer they lost had stolen a contract herself because Astrid took too long to answer it. The smarter, more silent contacts wouldn't let their ritual be known. Syn would take a similar approach as this Amaund did – perhaps not Volunruud, wherever it was, but somewhere hidden where no one would hear the chants.

"There's a man named Amaund Motierre in Volunruud. He performed the Black Sacrament." Syn was still leaning over the map, Astrid languidly sat straighter in her seat, bringing her face closer to Syn's.

"Let me get this straight. Last night, you 'couldn't sleep,' you got up, went to the Night Mother and she spoke to you. She told you about this contract and that is when Cicero walked in?"

"Yes."

"And he doesn't know the Night Mother spoke to you?"

"He does. The Night Mother told me a phrase so he would know I wasn't lying. He called them The Binding Words. What you heard was him screaming that he found the Listener – supposedly me." Syn bit her tongue. Sithis damn her, she had said too much.

"What was the phrase?" Astrid waited, but Syn didn't answer. The chair skidded along the stone when it was pushed back from Astrid standing. "_What_ were the words she spoke?"

"Darkness rises where blindness resides." Syn cursed her obedient nature – well, mostly obedient. Her mind raced to change the words but after she said them she didn't feel it was enough. It should have been completely different. These secrets were between the Listener, the Keeper, and the Night Mother. Astrid was none of the three, though she thought herself above them all.

"Now get out of my sight. Take a contract from Nazir and do not return when you do. Stay wherever it takes you, we will hear of the deed. As a consequence of your lies, you will receive no reward." The payment mattered little to Syn, Astrid could shove it up her ass septim by septim for all she cared.

"What about the _contract_," she snapped like she was trying to get through to a hard-headed child.

"I will _think_ about it! And if you go to Motierre and accept the contract yourself, you will be working against my orders and therefore against our entire family. Is that understood?" Syn understood that Astrid just threatened to kill her if she went to Motierre on her own initiative. That made the idea even more appealing, but she would be of no use to the Night Mother if one from their family did catch up to her.

Biting back the string of curses she was a breath away from unleashing on Astrid, she whirled and stormed towards the dining room. She knew the bitch was watching her in case she went to Cicero, so Syn went straight across the chamber. She passed Arnbjorn and Veezara on the way, both paused to watch her pass with a venomous scowl. Her hair whipped around her shoulders as if she charged through a blizzard. It took several deep breaths to calm herself enough to adopt a normal stride. By the time she reached the Redguard, her fury could have been mistaken for determination.

"Astrid wants me to take on a contract. What do you have for me?" She sat beside him, eyeing the food on the table.

"Let's see, here's one. Anoriath in Whiterun, didn't you just come from there? Anyhow, this is the one your little Dunmer fledgling never returned from. If you can take out a Companion, I'm sure you can handle this fellow." He watched her take less than usual for breakfast – she was known for her tendency to eat like a horse.

"He's one of the owners of the Drunken Huntsman, the one that has a stall, correct?"

"That's right. He spends his mornings hunting game around the hold. Perhaps you can show him how a true hunter operates, hm?" Syn hardly matched is excitement, she simply nodded and munched on plain bread. When she was by her chest of belongings, packing what she had just unpacked the day before, Cicero entered. He assessed her mood and tutted.

"Went that well, did it?" He had the I-told-you-so look in his eyes.

"Be on your guard, Keeper. She has more disdain for the Night Mother than we do for her."

"Oh, I doubt that." Cicero was smirking, his arms were crossed over his chest.

"Glad we're on the same page," she jested. "I mean it, watch yourself Cicero. The rest of them worship the ground she walks on." She continued to tell him about Astrid's reaction to her news and the bit of information she was careless enough to spill. Cicero wasn't happy about it, grunting and chastising her for it but he managed to keep quiet so Nazir wouldn't be able to make out what they said if he was even aware of their conversation.

With nothing more to say to Cicero, she left the Sanctuary once more. Astrid guarded the exit as she always did, the air between them was crisp and tense.


	5. Fight! Fight!

TSSC, Ch 5 – Fight! Fight!

* * *

Syn ran her fingers along the sharp edge of the saber claws that were fastened to her gauntlet, waiting for her Bosmer prey. She had seen him from afar, he was heading toward the large elk that grazed near her. Her feet moved quickly and quietly to round the small hill she hid behind, a thick tuft of grass hid her while both elk and elf were in her sights.

Anoriath squatted behind tall reeds, his golden skin and green tunic blended in with the plains. Syn watched as he silently cocked his arrow and slowly took aim. Her hand shot into the grass in front of her, the sudden, sharp rustle caused the elk to bound forward and sprint away. The scare affected Anoriath as well, he let the arrow loose and it shot into the ground where the elk once stood. He swore, the arrow was invisible in the high grass and he didn't expect to find it easily. The elk was nearly out of sight, still sprinting away from him.

Syn stood from her hiding place, heading toward the shot arrow. "Sorry about that, friend." She took the arrow from where it pierced the ground, walking towards the elf in an easy, friendly manner.

"What are you doing scaring off my prey, lass?" The elf was rightfully irritated, but his overall cordial nature took some of the bite from his words.

"It wasn't intentional. I was out hunting with my dog but he ran off. You wouldn't happen to have seen him, would you? He's one of those shaggy mutts."

"Aye, sheepdogs. I know what kind you're talking about but I haven't seen one."

She tutted. "Damn it," her brows were pinched with her worried act. Her eyes scanned the plains for witnesses, purposely letting the elf read it as a search for her dog. "Where could he be?"

"Look miss, I'll help you find your dog. Tell me where you last saw it and hand me back that arrow."

"Of course," she neared the elf as he reached to take what was his. Before he grasped it, Syn raised the arrow and cut the artery in his neck with the iron arrowhead. He stepped backwards, clutching the swiftly inflicted cut on his neck. Blood was quickly seeping from between his fingers.

"What in Oblivion-" Anoriath ran away from her, but she sprinted to catch him and raised her clawed gauntlet high overhead. Knowing it wasn't secure enough not to break, she punched his right shoulder, the claws sliced through muscle and scraped his shoulder blade. The pain caused him to stumble, Syn grabbed his arm and pulled. When he turned around she slashed from his left breast to his right hipbone. Anoriath couldn't stop his insides from falling through his grasp, he fell into the bloody mess that spilled out of him.

Another scan of the area convinced Syn there had been no witnesses. She cleaned the blood off of the arrow and replaced it in his quiver. Deciding the absence of gold could be blamed on some bandits that found the body, she took his coinpurse – meager as it was with only thirteen septims – and headed to Whiterun. She walked with light steps in case a tracker came across the body and discovered it was done by no saber. On her way she picked the claws off her gauntlet. As she expected, one was missing from the scuffle.

* * *

The small amount of coin was spent on lunch. Syn sat at the bar of the Bannered Mare, sipping her pint of ale and frowning about her orders to remain in such a dull city. Yet another annoyance was the flirty bard hanging over her shoulder. All she did was remark that she liked the song Ragnar the Red after he sang it. After that, the bard abandoned his post and made himself comfortable on the stool next to hers. The barmaid cast sympathetic looks at her every now and then while Mikael rambled about Sithis knows what. He brushed a lock of hair behind her ear – something she truly hated.

He didn't catch her second eyeroll, just as he missed the first. All her patience was wasted on thoughts of Astrid. Now another blonde haired buffoon wasn't about to leave her be. "Go. Away."

"A fiery one you are! I'll bet I can tame you, sweetheart." If he was any more smug he'd be in his quarters fondling himself.

"Could you?" Syn's voice took on a sultry purr as she felt an idea tickling her mind. "All right, if you can beat me in a brawl, I'll let you 'tame' me right here and now." Her tone left no doubts in his mind what she meant and it was exactly what he was after. Her smile widened when he accepted. With another sip of her ale, she scooted off the back of her stool as Mikael announced the deal to the other patrons. The men cheered at his soon to be claimed woman while the other women present scoffed.

"Come on, Claire, don't let that milk drinker put his hands on you," one cheered.

Syn clenched her fists, wishing she kept the claws. Mikael bounced on his feet in a ridiculous display of how people who _think_ they are fighters do. He uncurled his fists to tauntingly beckon her over. Syn noticed his guard was weak, he held both hands far enough apart for her to pass right between them. When she hit him flat in the nose, Mikael staggered, shocked from the force of it. Perhaps she should have warned him that she learned how to brawl from a werewolf, but more likely than that he probably expected her to be weak and this was a game of hard-to-get.

He wiped blood from his nose, getting angry and more determined to win. He charged at her with a shout, his fist was raised high over his head and when he swung, she dodged to her right with her left fist by her waist so when he passed, he caught her punch in the ribs. With a grunt, he staggered toward the bar. She came up behind him, not expecting him to throw back an elbow. She received the blow in the nose and lip, which gave him room to turn, but she was already swinging so his jaw and her fist met. Neither of the brawlers noticed when two Companions entered the tavern. They gave each other a look and joined the throng of spectators.

Mikael was unsteady on his feet. Dark, angry bruises were forming where her blows landed. Syn delivered an uppercut that sent him sprawling into the small fire in the middle of the room. One of the men rolled him out of the flames with his boot while Syn stood above him, smirking. When she saw that the bard was out cold, she sauntered back to her stool and grasped her pint. She tipped it toward Hilda, "How about a free refill for the service?"

The barmaid obliged, taking the pint and filling it to the top. "You got it." Applause erupted behind her as Syn took a long swig.

"Claire!" Syn turned toward the direction of a woman's voice and recognized Ria. The Companion approached with one she didn't meet before. "You just stole my job! He's been harassing women all over, Carlotta had enough and hired us to do what you just did." Syn shrugged at the woman.

"Yeah, I kind of jumped the line of folks that wanted to do that."

"You sure did, but it was quite a show, I don't even mind that you had the honor."

The Companion Syn didn't know turned to the whelp. "You know this one, Ria?" His voice was deep and gruff, similar to Arnbjorn's. From his scent it was obvious he too was a werewolf.

"She's the one that took over the giant's camp and invited us to stay the night." Ria addressed Syn, "Does he look familiar? This is Vilkas' twin brother, Farkas."

"Oh, a twin." She looked him up and down. His hair was longer than his brother's and he had a larger build. His face was blank, whereas Vilkas usually seemed to be calculating and brooding instead.

"Didn't you mention you had twin siblings?"

"I did, though they were a lad and a lass, not nearly as much resemblance as these two. In fact, they assumed me and my sister were the twins. Same hair, similar eyes and height. She was a little shorter though. Anyway, I digress. It's a pleasure to meet you, Farkas." She outstretched her hand and he wrapped his much larger one around hers. If his muscles didn't get the point across, his handshake showed he was extremely strong.

"You too. You have some skill in a fight. Ever think about joining us?" Syn looked at the ground, biting the inside of her cheek.

"It sounds like a blast, I would love the company but I'm not sure it would suit me. I'm picky about my freedom."

Ria waved her excuse away. "Freedom shmeedom. Train with us later, I bet you'll change your mind."

"Why not," Syn shrugged. The Companions left the Bannered Mare, having missed their chance to carry out their contract thanks to the restless assassin.

* * *

Syn rounded the back corner of Jorrvaskr, not bothering to go inside. She would have felt claustrophobic within, in case the uncanny happened and they suddenly realized she killed one of their own. When she entered the training yard, Farkas and Ria were talking by the edge of their porch and several other Companions stood nearby. Farkas noticed her approach, likely by scent.

"Claire, you came. I told Ria if she can stand up to you in a brawl, she'll get the reward for the job, if that's all right with you."

"Sounds like a good warm up. Let's go."

Syn and Ria walked to the center of the yard, circling one another with raised fists. The whelp was far more cautious than the bard and Syn had to be more cunning to get past her defenses. In the end, she was still the victor. She approached the Companion and helped her to her feet.

"You sure held out better than that pansy bard did. You would have crushed him like a bug." Ria accepted her hand and both turned to Skjor, who called to her from the bottom of the cliff under the Skyforge.

"So you beat a whelp, that doesn't say much. Vilkas, why don't you show her what it's like to really fight a Companion?" Vilkas stepped out of the shade of the porch and approached Syn with determination.

"Hello again," she greeted.

"Aye. Ready to spar? We'll use weapons for this. I want to see your form." Without wasting any time, he drew his sword and shield. She noticed he abandoned his greatsword and guessed it was because he wasn't lunging straight for a kill, as expected with contracts.

"You do know I'm not auditioning. Farkas believed this could convince me to join." She drew the orcish sword she used and held it limply by her side until he understood her intentions.

"We'll see." He held his shield between them. "Start with a few strikes, then I'll counter." Syn shrugged and complied, her first strike was a straightforward downward arc. She realized it was weak because the spar felt too staged, but she imagined the shield a live, bleeding creature and struck with more force. Vilkas raised his sword as a warning, but waited until she attacked a few more times. After a sidestep, she sliced at his shield from a different angle, using the ricochet as momentum for a twirl and a more powerful attack from the opposite direction. It was enough to stagger Vilkas, and apparently satisfying enough for him to swing his sword.

She blocked with her blade, Vilkas used the pause in combat to comment on her strength. "You have quite an arm."

"What about my leg?" Syn asked with a smirk, Vilkas seemed confused by her question. Their swords glided apart with a metallic hiss.

"What about it?" Before he could react, she kicked his legs out from under him with a sweep. He landed roughly on the ground, expecting a following attack, but getting none from her. She wasn't very aggressive in a sparring match. As he got to his feet, he directed her as he would a whelp. "If you manage to do it again, follow it up with a strike. I'm curious to see how you handle such an opening."

It took her several tries, but she got him down again. When she did, she swung her sword where he could easily block it. His shield had been dropped when he fell so he used his blade to block and was open for anything else. Syn grabbed the dagger from her belt and lunged, intending to stop short an inch away from his throat. He saw the dagger coming and jerked his elbow so it knocked her arm back. While she was off balance from that, he knocked her over so she was on her back beside him and he shifted to kneel above her. The chuckle that escaped her surprised him.

"This is officially turning into a roll in the hay," she purred. Vilkas ignored the comment best he could. Syn planted her boots on his chest and shoved, he was sent backwards with great speed. Only several quick steps were what saved him from landing on his arse again. Had it not been for the focus on footwork his two-handed training required, he wouldn't have been able to remain standing. He came to a stop over a yard away from Syn. While he was doubling back, she rolled backwards and after a quick draw, threw her dagger with enough precision to demonstrate her capabilities. Vilkas felt a tug on the fur lining covering his grieves and caught sight of the dagger buried hilt deep inches away from his groin. He didn't take kindly to having his jewels threatened, even if it was to prove a point. His eyes rolled to meet hers across the yard with a ferocious fury, it was frightening enough to have Syn explain herself.

"Normally that'd be in your eye, but there's nothing that high I could strike while doing no damage." His anger faded, but too slowly for her to feel comfortable without rambling further. "What? You said you wanted to see what I do when I see an opening." Vilkas finally grasped the ivory hilt and withdrew the blade from his armor, realizing it probably looked awkward at a glance. He walked toward her to return it.

"How much faith do you have in your aim?" The former proximity of the blade and his valuables still left him with an uneasy tickle. He couldn't help but wonder how sure she was she wouldn't hit something he would dearly miss.

"More than you do, obviously." His tension was hard to miss. She took the dagger back, grasping the point between her thumb and forefinger, ready to offer another demonstration. She turned toward the mannequins set along the wall, then after raising her arm so the dagger was behind her shoulder, she quickly straightened her arm and released. The dagger sunk onto the burlap mannequin head where a crude left eye was drawn.

"Not bad. You've surpassed the whelps, even with the skills they have acquired since joining us. Are you sure you want to pass up the opportunity?" Vilkas was becoming more at ease again, he stood beside her with his fists on his hips.

"I'm sure. I hear your harbinger can see into people. I've worked too hard to find a safe place to stash my moon sugar for an old man to gaze at me and call it out." Vilkas was less impressed than her joke than she was, but she spoke the truth about her reluctance to meet someone that could notice the darkness in her. Exposure would mean certain death, considering her crimes and her current situation with the family's mistress. Beside them, a voice Syn didn't recognize spoke.

"My perception is not so specific, child. Your _moon sugar_ is safe." Syn turned quickly in her surprise and saw a strongly built, older man with a bushy grey beard. He had a small smile playing on his features and had a friendlier countenance than the other werewolves. He recognized she was in jest, at least partially. "Now that I am here, I will have a look at you anyway." He neared her, searching intently with his pale blue eyes. Syn straightened and puffed out her chest comically and widened her eyes. She was unable to keep herself from smiling, even Kodlak's lips twitched at her playful manner. "A fire blazes within you, though it stirs. When you feel it is shrouded in darkness, know that it is fleeting." She exhaled the breath she held for her posing, not altogether impressed by his words. They were wise, but didn't have the magical level of perception the legends made it sound like. For the same reason, she was relieved. Even when a flame dwindled within her, it could never banish the darkness and she didn't want it to. Before she showed her disbelief, she smiled warmly at him.

"I bet you tell that to all the girls." Beside her, Vilkas pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Would a bit of respect kill you?" Syn rolled her eyes at him while Kodlak chuckled.

"Let the girl be, Vilkas. No harm done. Now, a question for you. What do you think of your own skill in battle?"

"I think it's enough to keep me alive thus far, but I always want to improve," she answered honestly.

"You love to fight," Kodlak observed. "I can see that you recognize you could learn much in our midst. What calls you away from our path?"

"I…" Syn frowned, trying to find words that didn't say 'because I'm an assassin that just needs to lie low until it's time to kill someone else.' "I prefer freedom. I can get up and go when I wish, travel…" she trailed off and shrugged lamely.

"Do not regret your decision not to join us, everyone has their own destiny. I was simply curious. You are welcome here whenever you wish to train with us, and if you change your mind our door is always open for you."

"Thank you, Kodlak." Vilkas was relieved she managed to grow serious as he watched her take a slight bow before the harbinger, who turned to address him.

"When you have time, I'd like to speak to you alone." Kodlak headed toward the porch without waiting for a response.

"I'll be right behind you," the younger werewolf called. He bid Syn goodbye with a curt nod and followed the elder inside Jorrvaskr. Before Syn left, the redheaded woman, who was the only female werewolf, approached her.

"I don't know why you insist on being a fool and not becoming one of us. There are benefits you do not yet understand."

_Like being a werewolf?_ She misread Syn's raised brow as skepticism.

"I have already said it's not for me. Besides, I'll be around. There are still all sorts of odd jobs you Companions don't snatch up," she winked. The redhead still wasn't pleased, but Syn left her to stew in it if she wished. The assassin's fun there was concluded so she returned to the Bannered Mare.


	6. Careless Whisper

TSSC, Ch 6 – Careless Whisper

AN: I found out after writing most of this that my guess on the order of the jarl's children was backwards, but for the sake of the story, let's pretend Nelkir is the oldest. He seems like he would be, doesn't he?

* * *

Syn nursed her third pint of mead, wondering if the news of Anoriath reached the city. Sure enough, in the next half hour she heard his name mentioned by the slurring fools she had only half listened to until that point.

"He was killed by a bear!" one of them said.

"There aren't no bears around these plains, you daft bastard."

"A saber, then. All I know is he was mauled something awful."

"That really is all you know," the sarcastic drunk quipped.

"Ysmir's beard, man. Get off my arse!" When their grumbling subsided, the conversation between two women beside her picked up. With a glance to her left, she noticed it was Uthgerd, the brawler with a real chip on her shoulder, and Hilda.

"Is it the Jarl's daughter?" Hilda inquired.

"No, Jarl Balgruuf's daughter isn't a problem, except she's spoiled. It's his son." Uthgerd would be the one criticizing the jarl's family. She thought she was good enough to walk in and receive an offer to replace his housecarl.

"The youngest?"

"No, he's the least troubled of the children. Nothing interesting about him, he's all in his head like most children are. It's his eldest – now that boy is a real puzzle. I've seen more personality in a frost troll than in that boy. He's not exactly spoiled like the daughter, but he's got a definite air of superiority. He may be a mage, they're always the ones that want to watch the world burn."

"By the Nine, what do you think makes him act like that?" Hilda was watching Uthgerd with alarm, partly from the nature of her account and because the warrior dared speak of the jarl's family in such a way.

"No clue," the warrior answered. "All I know is he's not normal. Probably never will be." Syn had stopped drinking near the beginning of their conversation and hovered above her nearly empty tankard, deep in thought. She never noticed the jarl's eldest son, apparently. She only knew of two children, the spoiled little shit and the friendly but rambunctious boy. The dark child had not been in the throne room anytime she was there to collect bounty rewards.

"Claire?" Hilda's voice snapped her out of her thoughts. "Do you need a refill?"

"No, I'm good for now. Have the jarl's men dropped off any bounties lately?" It was an excuse to get out of the city – to the Void with Astrid's order to stay put – and report back to Dragonsreach to poke around for the intriguing child. Hilda responded with an 'aye' and bent to shuffle through the parchments under the bar, keeping one hand on the dirty rag she idly wiped the dampened wood with.

"Here, this was dropped off two days ago. No one's too interested in clearing out these poachers, apparently." She handed Syn a folded parchment, inside it gave the location of a troublesome bandit – Halted Stream Camp. Syn set a small handful of coins on the counter and left after a stop to her room to retrieve her pack with the shrouded armor in it. If she remembered correctly, there was a tall fence surrounding the camp she could hide by while she changed.

* * *

The entire purging of Halted Stream Camp was a blurry dance of death. She felt like a rabid predator, her vision fogged by bloodlust in an already ill-lit mine. It was hard to make out anything but the moving shadows of pacing poachers. The blackness separated for spurts of red when she attacked, then it engulfed the corpses again when she moved on, nearing their unsuspecting and doomed leader.

Their leader wasn't isolated, which made the final leg of her mass killings more fun. Syn perched at the edge of the ramp above a slain mammoth, where two lackeys hacked with difficulty. Drawing the last poisoned arrow, cocking it and taking a slow, careful aim was done with unnatural slowness. Since the trip there was so hasty, she wanted to savor the climax. The arrow loosed, its iron head sunk into the female poacher's shoulder and traveled to the other side. The bandit was left staring at half of its bloodied length in complete stupefaction. The expected seizure began, when she fell onto her back, the arrow was pushed further until the feathered tip was buried in her flesh and the shaft stuck out far above her clavicle. The other poacher watched her with his head cocked, the axe was still raised in his hand until he brought it down on her head, ending her life himself.

Their leader was at the far end of the room, standing on the raised platform they slept around. He watched with as much bewilderment, if not more, than his remaining accomplice. The latter shrugged at his leader.

"She was gonna die anyway." The leading poacher scanned the area, satisfied with the man's explanation and searching for the offending archer. Syn sat still behind a pile of flour sacks that piled near her sniping position, leaving her bow on the ground beside her and placing a hand on her sword. The henchman was close to her, standing in the pool of oil from an overturned lantern. Syn wished she had at least minor destruction spells, to see him go up in flames would be immensely satisfying. Instead she looked to the torch on the sconce a few yards away from her. Getting that would reveal her position to the leader, who was facing where she was, but she could live with that.

The leader turned to the table behind him, Syn didn't know what for since he wasn't so stupid as to ignore the threat, but she darted to her right to take the torch. The lackey saw the movement out of the corner of his eye, shouting 'over there' and pointing with the eye of the axe. Luckily, it didn't occur to him to move from his spot. Syn took the torch, aware she was fully illuminated, and tossed it below. The torch landed on the opposite edge of the pool and the flames swam along the oil, licking at his left boot, then traveling up his leg to engulf the shaggy furs he wore.

The man uttered several panicked grunts, hopelessly slapping the fire after he dropped the axe into the fire he stood in. Syn lost concentration on the battle while she watched, the roasting poacher was mesmerizing until she noticed the leader sprinting across the flames with a massive warhammer in hand.

She drew her sword, unsure how she would handle close combat with the hulking orc. He was near enough for her to see the sparks of lightning dance on the edge of the warhammer, and the supplemental magic infusing the rest of the weapon, adding more strength to a man who didn't need it. The bearded orc bared his teeth in a mute snarl. Despite the fact Syn felt like a housecat cornered by a wolf, she wasn't afraid. A plan was budding in her mind. She raised her sword and swung at him halfheartedly, expecting him to block with the handle, which is exactly what he did. The poacher used the vulnerable seconds while she recoiled to swing his hammer. Syn dodged, continuing the direction of her rebound. The orc used the weight of his hammer to build up momentum, the face led zigzagging arcs as he stepped forward to trap Syn between himself and the edge of the ramp. When she could take no further steps back, she squatted, shooting her hand backwards to grab one of the sacks of flour and tossed it in the air he would soon strike.

There was an explosion of white between them that engulfed them both, Syn skirted the orc, hugging the edge to his right as he inhaled flour and coughed heavily, resulting in him sucking more in. The sound gave away his position to the assassin, she knew she stood behind him and could make out his shape since the heavy flour settled on the ground around them. She raised her sword and cleaved the back of his head, causing the orc to fall. Spasms showed he wasn't dead yet, so she followed with several more chops- well past the amount she needed. When enough blood spilled onto the wood and when her muscles protested against another swing, she stopped, deciding to shake off as much of the flour as she could.

A dusty white trail was left in her wake. By the time she finished ridding the corpses of their gold and got outside, enough of the flour was off so she didn't leave a ghostly vapor with every step. Truth be told, she kind of missed it. Lucien might have even been amused by her phantom impersonation.

After bathing in the stream, she returned to the camp. Dawn approached and she needed rest for her return to Whiterun.

* * *

Does that damn priest ever rest? It was early in the morning and Heimskr was before the statue of Talos, raving in his usual way. Syn rolled her eyes as she walked past him, up the steps to the Cloud District. At least Ysolda – the next local she passed – was a quiet one. The aspiring merchant was picking flowers from the grounds around Dragonsreach for Arcadia's potions. The girls gave one another a friendly greeting before passing each other. Soon the great doors of Dragonsreach loomed over Syn.

The guards posted on either side paid her little mind, aware of the purpose behind her occasional visits to the keep. Once inside, she headed to the pompous steward, Avenicci. The steward likely knew why she was there for there had been only one reason thus far. Nevertheless, he acted unassuming and politely listened to her report.

"I've dealt with the bandits at Halted Stream Camp."

"Yet another service to our hold. Here is your payment." He handed her the meager sum and took note of the small deduction in the treasury's funds in a small journal. Syn moseyed out of the throne room, scanning the area for the jarl's children. She was about to descend the stairs above the atrium when a monotonous voice chided her from nearby.

"Another wanderer, here to lick my father's boots. Good job." She saw the boy to her right, he sat at a small round table in the corner glaring peevishly from his vantage point. All too easily could she imagine a black hand stamped on his burgundy tunic, claiming the child for Sithis.

"So you're the dark one I've heard about." Syn leaned on the banister, openly scrutinizing him.

"The dung beetles down in the city talk about me?" He couldn't have asked with less interest.

"Yes, though I can't imagine why. Such contempt is hardly noticeable." She was amused by the child, so she didn't patronize him. He looked close to fourteen, soon to be a man but not quite there. If he was a few centuries older and still in that form, he would make a charming match for Babette.

"How could I not have contempt for everyone around here," he grumbled. "Better yet, why shouldn't I? I know more about what really goes on than anyone except the Whispering Lady. For instance, I know my father still worships Talos. That I don't have the same mother my siblings do. That one of the Grey-Manes hired an assassin to avenge the man she cheated on her lover with." Syn raised a brow at his flood of information and how forthcoming he was about it considering the nature of his trivia. She also had to wonder how this Whispering Lady knew of her contract and how much detail she gave the boy about it. He didn't seem to know anything about Syn being the assassin, or else he perfected his impassive mask.

"Where might one find this Whispering Lady?" The woman seemed intriguing – and dangerous. It was curious how she knew all these things and Syn thought a network of spies would be over the top in such a location, unless it was related to the war. There were Thalmor spies everywhere, though she couldn't think of any Altmer in the city, or no one outwardly supporting them. The only other possible identity was Olava, who Syn knew had connections with the Dark Brotherhood and often drowned herself in a pint. Perhaps she was a chatty drunk, or at wits-end. Either way, Syn needed to have a talk with her.

"She's behind the locked door in the basement. Just put your ear to the keyhole and listen. I bet she'll talk to you, too." He gestured with his thumb toward the basement, which is where she went. The others around the throne room paid her no mind.

She found the door he spoke of in a storage room, half concealed from the entrance by a cabinet. There was nothing suspicious about it at all, until she squatted to peek through the keyhole and heard a voice.

_At last. I've waited long for a suitable champion._ The voice had an immortal energy and seduction no human or elven woman could ever hope to match. It was certainly not Olava.

Syn could see nothing within as the room was completely dark. "Champion? Who are you that you demand one?" A shuffling sound to her left made Syn start. The child entered the room and waited at the threshold.

_I forgive you for not recognizing me. Few can hear my whispers anymore. I am Mephala. I need not explain that further to one such as you, do I, child of Sithis?_

Syn gaped in disbelief. Not only did the Whispering Lady claim to be a deity, but the one who founded the assassins guild that gave birth to the one she was a part of. "How could you be held within this place? I cannot imagine this structure housing a shrine to you."

_I am bound within, but not completely. There is a piece, enough for my essence to be present yet I cannot see past the seals. I need you to open this door so you may claim this piece. I would prefer it to be in the hands of an ambitious and talented person, such as yourself. _

"How do I get past the seals?"

_The jarl trusts few, and they will be his undoing. The dark child knows of what I speak._

The voice behind the door grew silent. Syn looked once more inside to see if she could make anything out in the dark. A faint red glow shone from within, one that had not been there before. Knowing there would be no further answers from there, she stood and approached the boy, who still waited patiently.

"She spoke to you, didn't she? What did she say?" The first emotion she saw from him crossed his face. It was clear he was intensely interested.

"She told me to open the door and that you knew how to."

"There's a special key. I think it's even enchanted. There are only two copies – held by my father and Farengar. He's the court wizard. No one would notice if he went missing, I promise you." He hinted so nonchalantly Syn couldn't help but chuckle.

"I like the way you think. I never caught your name, anyway."

"It's Nelkir."

"Nelkir, do you know who the Whispering Lady really is?" It was intriguing that Mephala contacted someone so young, though He clearly thought Nelkir lacked something He needed.

"No, she won't tell me her name. Do you?"

"Yes, and I will tell you when this is all over." Before he could inquire further, she passed him. Whether the mage would be missed or not, she could not kill him. The bodies around Whiterun were piling up as it was, she was on the verge of attracting too much notice.

The mage was sitting at his desk and seemed to be engrossed in a book until she came near. He sighed at the intrusion as if she were a mere annoyance.

"Might I use your alchemy table?" Farengar frowned deeply and looked as if he was on the verge of refusing her request.

"If you think you know what you're doing and clean up your mess after, I guess there's no harm in it." Though he gave her permission, he squirmed restlessly in his seat when she stood behind him. The click and grind of the mortar and pestle was a grating sound when anyone other than himself caused the racket. In seconds he leapt from his seat and hovered over her shoulder. "What is it you intend to make?"

"A general poison. The bandits around here are starting to gain a bit more intelligence. They've nearly got the IQ of a walnut now – a vast improvement. I need a way to dispose of them more efficiently." She had a weak grasp on the rules of simple alchemy, having usually left the field to Babette, and played her incompetence up so he could become focused enough for her to search for the key without knocking him out.

"With this concoction you'll hardly cause a rash on the insipid outlaws. I can help you make something more potent, for a price." He stared disdainfully at the crushed nightshade and deathbell petals in the mortar. She let go of the instruments and let him flaunt his expertise. He abruptly did an about-face, going to a drawer full of ingredients and retrieved a mushroom and a small pinch of dust, which she guessed to be void salts. Farengar added the extra ingredients to the mixture in the mortar and began to crush everything together. Syn hovered over his shoulder as he did to her, glancing over his robe to see if she could empty his pockets.

"So," she began with a soft tone. "Can you make a love potion?" Her fingers lightly grazed his back, causing a tickle near his ribs. His muscles tensed immediately and he turned to give her a curious look that slowly melted into a smile.

"As lovely as you are, do you even need one? Or is the lucky man already taken?"

"I don't know, _are_ you?" Her hands roamed more freely over his body, massaging his back and following the rope he used as a belt. A blush colored his cheeks, he cleared his throat awkwardly.

"No such potion exists, I'm afraid." He mashed the pulp with as much violence as her brothers and sisters did with their victims. Syn used the moments she knew his mind raced to take the key, and another object that wedged itself in the key's bow. Farengar reached for an empty bottle that sat behind the alchemy table and scraped the contents of the mortar into it. "This should do the trick."

"Thank you." She took the bottle from his grasp, while intentionally brushing his fingers with hers. "How much do I owe you?"

"N-nothing this time. But I hope you watched carefully." He scampered back to his seat and pretended to continue reading.

As she headed back to the basement, she realized Nelkir watched from the kitchen. He ducked partially behind the staircase leading to the basement and gave her an inquiring gesture, to which she responded with a subtle nod. Both descended the stairs when she reached him.

"What did he give you?"

"A poison. It was my cover for being in his space." Nearly at the door, she stopped, turning to the lad and retrieving the bottle from her satchel. "I wonder, would you be interested in this?" She held the bottle in her hand and swirled it slowly so the red liquid within stained the neck of it.

Nelkir hummed as he thought, staring at the poison for inspiration. "None of my family, they're too high profile. Unless… my mother still works here as a servant. Her death would teach my pig of a father not to be so careless with his affairs." A cold glint in his eye made Syn realize how easily she could imagine a young Lucien Lachance to be like Nelkir. The thought made her breath hitch, though she tried to hide it. "But I wouldn't use all of it, she's weak and I'd be left with more. So maybe I'd put it in the steward's food. Or in Farengar's wine. I don't know why you didn't just kill him."

"Because," she stated as she took his hand and placed the poison in it. "It is imperative that my presence doesn't arouse suspicion." Before she finished her explanation, she withdrew the key from her pocket and unlocked the door.

_Excellent work._ Mephala's hushed tone did nothing to hide her elation at having the seals broken and the door opened. Nelkir grabbed a candle from the storage room and, after feeling the wall for the sconce, lit the candle just within. The room was empty except for a table on the opposite wall, which only had a journal and a katana lying upon it. Both lad and woman approached with wonder. As Syn reached for the blade, Nelkir reached for the journal and hungrily flipped through the pages.

"It's called the Ebony Blade. It's like a vampire, feeding on the blood of its victims." His lips kept moving as he skimmed the journal's contents, though nothing but whispers escaped for some time. "Amazing! This says if you use it to kill the people that trust you, it will grow stronger." The red glow from the object bathed his awestricken face, illuminating it in an ominous light.

_That's right,_ Mephala affirmed. _It has languished too long outside the winds of alliance and betrayal._ A silence stretched while Syn grasped the blade, but Nelkir's eyes were raised and blank as though he was being addressed separately.

_You, my champion, already feel the threat of betrayal tugging at you, do you not? _

"Not as much as some," Syn muttered. How could she forget the look on Astrid's face when her suspicions began. She could practically hear the Daedric Prince salivating for their relationship to further unravel. The blade made her bones itch for her superior's blood, though with that suspicion how much would it nourish the leeching weapon's power? If she were allowed to carry out that Purification Lucien fantasized about a week prior, that would certainly feed Mephala's relic's power.

But no, Syn's will was strong. It would take a command by the Night Mother herself to convince her to strike a member of her family, and nothing short of that would make her disobey. Not even a Daedric Prince she highly revered.

The child was still in another zone, staring at the wall and responding to prompts not meant for Syn's ears.

_Indeed. Let the Ebony Blade take the final pluck of her misguided heartstrings. Together, they will lead the song of your grandeur._ Mephala's voice died into silence a final time. The urge to take lives she could not without breaking a tenet was still strong. She hurriedly grabbed the sheath for the blade and walked out of the room as she strapped it to her back.

The blade was mostly concealed under her cloak so the guards outside Dragonsreach didn't take any special interest in it. Hasty footsteps followed her to the edge of the bridge, and Nelkir called to her.

"Wait! Who are you, really?" He stepped closer to her, hushing his voice. "The Whispering Lady said you are her champion, that I should follow you. And you said you'd tell me who she was." He expected much from her, it seemed.

"Someday, child. I will remember you, but I can do nothing for you now. Even I am lying in wait." A growl escaped his throat when she started to walk away, but he was far from grown. It was like the growl of a pup.

"Just give me something! I'm losing my mind in this place." His voice raised and several guards took notice. Syn whirled, dropping to one knee to get close to him and speak under her breath.

"Learn to blend in. You will never be able to remain unnoticed the way you are now. So brash, so obvious. Learn control – let your rage fester, but keep it hidden. This whole city will be on their guard against you if you do not. And the Whispering Lady is Mephala – Daedric Prince of deceit and betrayal." She rose, stepping backwards to descend the first few steps. "One day I'll return and give you the means to channel your rage. When you impress me, this blade will be yours."

Nelkir was far from happy with her advice, but he intended to take it. His lip was curled and he bit out, "I'm holding you to it."

"Good." Her cloak whipped around when she headed away from him, giving him a final glimpse of the Ebony Blade. He stomped back inside, lightening his steps when he remembered Syn's advice. He worked to appear calm, taking deep breaths and trying to clear his mind. When inside, he saw everyone moving to the dining tables to have lunch. He silently slipped into his usual seat between his brother and sister. Most of their chatter, he ignored.

"Absurd you can't get good sweet rolls in this skeever hole of a city!" Dagny poked at the stale bread with a fork.

"You're a skeever hole!" Frothar leaned against the table to eye her with a big grin, thoroughly impressed with his own retort. Between them, Nelkir puffed a long breath out, knowing he faced a cruel trial having to remain in his personal plane of Oblivion indefinitely.

* * *

AN: Whoever said, "Goodness speaks in a whisper, evil shouts," has never met Mephala. ;)


End file.
